Oxymoronic Transfixion

The humankind of debatable being…

More could be written

Of a dead moth

Dangling from an abandoned spider web

In a tool shed of no tools,

Or even better,

An iron typewriter

That hasn’t lifted a rusty key in years

To the attached

Sheet of paper about to crumble.

Such inanimate delight

And dark despair

These human lives suspended

In oxymoronic transfixion to nothing,

Like pappus in perpetual floatation.